


The thing they call Divine

by orphan_account



Series: Spacehog [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Not really Series 3 compliant, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Whumps Himself, Sickfic, What a dumbass, but it doesn't matter, but mostly just bromance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:26:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets injured during a case and John gets treated to a repeat image of his friend lying on the pavement bleeding from the head. Needless to say, he doesn't take it very well.</p><p>*Now with 50% more playful banter!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The thing they call Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Once again a hit single by an underground UK band has inspired me to write Sherlock fic. The title is taken from [In The Meantime by Spacehog](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=39VXuviqD9w/). It reminds me of John and Sherlock and their feels, not sure why.
> 
> *This fic sorta follows the ACD canon timeline: Mary died in some unknown way at some point and the boys moved back into 221 B to continue their big fat ambiguously gay bromance. The story's concept comes from one of the original stories (i forget which) where Watson mentioned that Holmes occasionally fainted from hunger whilst on a case.

They’d been chasing a suspect for nearly two miles when Sherlock Holmes collapsed, resulting in the detective losing his lead and John Watson losing his rag and all the still-fresh remnants of his PTSD shaking loose when Sherlock’s head cracked against the pavement. He sprawled out at the edge of the street and lay there looking for all the world like a great scarecrow blown over by a storm. John was at his friend’s side in two seconds.

Don’t move, he ordered as he knelt down. i’m going to check you out before you get up.

She’s getting away, Sherlock said faintly. 

FUCK her. John pulled the detective’s scarf back and brushed a lock of hair from his sweatbeaded forehead revealing a large bleeding cut at his temple. John choked back a sob and shook himself forced himself to assess the damage while in the back of his mind he watched Sherlock jump again  
and again  
and again.  
The blood was dripping out of the cut and not spurting so John counted that as a blessing and pressed a tissue to the wound ignoring the trembling in his fingers. 

i’m fine, Sherlock murmured into the kerb. Look, i’ve got full range of motion and everything. He wiggled his fingers, flexed his feet. 

That doesn’t mean you don’t need medical attention. John pulled out his phone and texted Lestrade. i’m assuming you fainted because you were exerting yourself and haven’t eaten in three days, he growled. 

i didn’t faint, i tripped—

Don’t you fucking lie to me, i saw the entire thing, John snapped. You came to a stop and fainted dead away. Idiot. He pulled the tissue back to check the bleeding. i’ve really had enough of seeing you lying in the street with blood pouring out of your face, he went on. For fucksake, Sherlock. 

i’m sorry John, Sherlock whispered, and his friend’s eyes softened. 

We’ll talk about it later. John soothed his palm flat across the detective’s back. But if this cut is deep or if you show any signs of a concussion we’re going to a and e. 

But—

Shut up and work with me. John took a penlight from his pocket and shone it into Sherlock’s silvery eyes. His pupils retracted sluggishly. John frowned. Your head hurts, right.

Abominably.

Here, grab my fingers as hard as you can. John held out his index fingers. Sherlock wrapped his own fingers around them and squeezed and John was relieved to feel that his friend's grip was strong, and even.

i'm fine, Sherlock insisted.

i'll be the judge of that. Does your neck hurt at all? Or anything else?

No. Well. My wrist. Sherlock flexed his left one and flinched. It's not broken. 

Good. So how many bones are in a human hand?

Twenty seven.

And what's number fifty one on the periodic table?

Antimony. S b.

And David Beckham's wife's name is?

Piss off, John.

Right. Good. John put the light and the red-soaked tissue on the ground and tucked his hands under Sherlock’s shoulders. Let's get you sat up. John tightened his grip to help the other man shuffle upright, clamping his fingers down when Sherlock started to slip sideways. Easy, he murmured in his friend’s ear. Are you dizzy? Sherlock nodded and swallowed and his face paled so rapidly it looked as if someone had pricked his skin with a pin and all remaining colour had drained from it like water. 

i think...he swallowed again spat a mouthful of saliva onto the concrete. 

Are you going to be sick, John asked. Sherlock nodded, wincing. John moved to kneel behind him and fit his hand to his friend’s forehead. Lean forward, he told Sherlock. i’ve got you. The detective did as he was told (a miracle in itself, that) and hung there against John’s hand, breathing shallowly.

Deep breaths, John reminded him. Breathe. Sherlock let out the briefest of whimpers. You’re all right, John said, rubbing his friend’s back. Greg will be here soon and we’ll get you to hospital. 

Hate hospitals, Sherlock mumbled. He retched hard and vomited. 

i know but you need to go, John said gently. Don’t worry, i’ll stay and protect you from all the evil doctors and nurses bent on making your life a living hell. 

You’re not funny. Sherlock threw up again. Some of it splattered on his leather shoes, the knees of his suit trousers. Oh god...

Shh, it’s OK. John searched his pockets for another tissue but he couldn’t find one so he rolled his sleeve down and used it to wipe Sherlock’s mouth. He mumbled a protest that John shushed away and tipped back against John with his eyes closed. Open your eyes. John tapped Sherlock's cheek. i know that you're tired and in pain but you can’t sleep. Stay conscious for me. 

Anything for you, John, Sherlock sighed with a ghost of a smile on his lip. 

Cheeky bastard, John chuckled. He gathered his friend in and they waited.

The two of them sat there in silence until the beams of a car’s headlights cut twin paths through the night illuminating them both. John turned sideways shielding the other man from the harsh light. Then he squeezed Sherlock's leg just above the knee. 

That'll be Greg. Time to move, he said. We'll do this slowly, alright. His companion made a small, unhappy sound. The car's just over there, you'll only need to walk a few steps, John said reassuringly. Now put your arms around my neck. Sherlock did, and as John eased them both up inch by inch Sherlock clung to him pressed their bodies together so close that John could smell the vomit and stale cigarette smoke on his friend's breath so close that he could feel his friend's heart beating against his own chest so close that for a moment John did not want to let him go. 

When they were both on their feet John held on to Sherlock a moment longer before he pulled the other man's arm across his shoulders and started towards the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes the weird grammar and lack of quotation marks is intentional. i write for mental masturbations' sake, so **i** get to make the decisions. If you don't like my work, it's cool that you at least took the time to read it. Any feedback is appreciated, thanks  <3


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